


Today's Special

by jonnyhustle



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Barista Patrick, Blackhawks, Fluff, Hockey Player Jonny, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 19:15:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3458714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonnyhustle/pseuds/jonnyhustle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coffee shop!AU. </p>
<p>  <i>There’s a Starbucks around the corner from Jonny’s condo. They get his order wrong every time, without fail, and he’s starting to think they’re doing it just to fuck with him. </i></p>
<p>  <i>Well, okay, he started thinking that the first time it happened, but he decided to shrug it off, give them the benefit of the doubt. It was dumb, he knows, to think that it was possible to get a straight black coffee that wrong.</i></p>
<p>  <i>The shop is almost empty when he walks in, with just a couple of late-night customers lounging around in the chairs and talking quietly amongst themselves. There’s a new kid behind the counter, and Jonny crosses his fingers, hopes that this guy isn’t in on the joke and will actually serve him the right drink.</i><br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Today's Special

**Author's Note:**

> There are a couple of things that inspired this.
> 
> First, [this experience I had the other day](http://toestoewstazer.tumblr.com/post/112047812547/the-barista-at-starbucks-drew-me-on-my-coffee-and) and, secondly, [this](http://31.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mbevvfUw0O1qduyeio1_500.jpg) which has inspired all sorts of fic in every fandom ever. It was also only written because today was a terrible day and I needed a little fluff in my life.
> 
> I don't know why I keep making Jonny a hockey player and Kaner not. I might need to shake things up a little. I also swear I am working on something longer that doesn't end suddenly (or when the two meet). I do need a beta, though, if anyone is interested. 
> 
> [My Tumblr is here](http://toestoewstazer.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> I think that's all I had to say?

Everyone in the NHL knows what Jonny’s like after a loss. More than that, everyone who’s ever heard a post-game interview with Jonny after a loss knows what he’s like. Knows that he will blame himself, will push himself harder, will do everything he can to to make sure it never happens again, will be utterly devastated when it inevitably does. 

His teammates have long since given up on trying to distract him from a loss. They’ll invite him out to dinner, to the bar down the road, back to Seabs’, even if they know that he’s already making excuses before they can even get the invitation out. 

“I’m just really tired,” he’ll say, or maybe, “I’m not in the mood tonight.”

It always boils down to the loss, to the overwhelming sense of failure, the need to do better. 

Be better. 

So, he stays in the locker room until the other boys have left. He waits them out, sitting on the bench and staring at nothing, still in his gear. He’ll hear the last shower turn off. He’ll say goodbye to whatever teammate has stayed back, worried about their captain, and promise that he’s not too far behind them. 

Then he’ll do push-ups, lunges, whatever springs into his mind. He’ll stop when he’s just on the verge of puking, when he knows that, even if he deserves it, he shouldn’t push himself any further.

Tonight, Darling’s sitting beside him, in that same awful headspace, and Jonny just can’t.

“This isn’t on you,” Jonny starts, knowing that as the C he has to say this, “we win as a team, and lose as a team.” 

His voice is rougher than it should be, he thinks. 

Darling doesn’t lift his head, just says, “We were shutout.”

Jonny shrugs, “You weren’t the one shooting. Did you play your hardest?” 

Darling hesitates, but nods. 

“Then you’re fine,” he sighs, slapping his hand on Darling’s shoulder, “go home, man. There’s no point hanging around here.”

Darling nods again, gets up to collect his things, “Are you coming?” 

Jonny deliberates, closes his eyes, thinks of going back to his empty condo and reviewing the game, making notes, making promises to do better. 

“Yeah, I’ll be right behind you,” he settles on.

Darling nods, is standing up to leave when he suddenly hangs back and returns Jonny’s earlier gesture.

With his hand on Jonny’s shoulder, he says, “Same goes for you, you know that? This isn’t on you.” 

“Yeah,” Jonny agrees half-heartedly, “but I was the one shooting.”

***

There’s a Starbucks around the corner from Jonny’s condo. They get his order wrong every time, without fail, and he’s starting to think they’re doing it just to fuck with him. 

Well, okay, he started thinking that the first time it happened, but he decided to shrug it off, give them the benefit of the doubt. It was dumb, he knows, to think that it was possible to get a straight black coffee that wrong.

The shop is almost empty when he walks in, with just a couple of late-night customers lounging around in the chairs and talking quietly amongst themselves. There’s a new kid behind the counter, and Jonny crosses his fingers, hopes that this guy isn’t in on the joke and will actually serve him the right drink.

He’s average in height, but shorter than Jonny himself and most of the guys on the team, yet still built like a hockey player. The standard black polo shirt is pulled tightly across the chest, and Jonny can’t stop himself from staring even if he knows he should be looking at the menu. 

The kid has the collar of his shirt popped, isn’t wearing the apron, and for all intents and purposes looks like the douchey frat boys Jonny thought he’d escaped when he left college. He’s even got the backwards baseball cap thing happening, and Jonny can’t stop himself from smiling when he sees that it bears the Blackhawks logo instead of the regulation Starbucks one.

That’s not the only thing Jonny notices though. 

When he finally tears his eyes away from the barista to look at the menu, even though he already knows what he’s going to order today, he spies the “today’s special” menu propped up against the counter. 

The “‘s special” has been crossed out, with “your barista is:” added on instead. Beneath that it reads:  
“1. Hella fucking gay  
2\. Desperately single

For your drink today I recommend:  
You give me your number.”

Jonny chokes on his spit, catching the attention of the barista, and flails a hand toward the sign.

On the ice Jonny is calm and collected. He has his shit together. Off the ice? Well, there’s a reason it’s nearing 1AM after playing a spectacularly shitty game and he’s at the local Starbucks instead of out with his team, collectively licking their wounds. 

“You okay, man?” The barista asks, looking Jonny up and down as if he’s insane. 

“Yeah, I’m–” Jonny clears his throat, embarrassed, “today’s special just caught me off, is all.” 

The barista frowns, leans forward until he’s practically horizontal across the counter, and grabs for the sign. Jonny decidedly does not stare at his ass.

“Today your barista is,” the barista reads, his voice emanating annoyance, “hella fucking gay. Desperately single. For your drink today I recommend: you give me your number.” 

He frowns when he finishes, stands silently for a few seconds before shooting Jonny a look.

“Well, uh,” the barista says, “It’s not completely wrong. I guess.”

Jonny frowns, “You guess?” 

He doesn’t know what part he hopes is right. The “hella fucking gay”, or the “single”, or all of the above. 

The thing is, Jonny’s not out, not in the general sense anyway. His family and his teammates know, a couple of his close friends who don’t play, but that’s it. He wouldn’t ever act on a line as dumb as the day’s recommendation, but he wants to. 

God, he wants, and he hates himself a tiny bit more for it when he realises. Somehow, the total douche look, the absolute look of “I am done with this shit” that the barista’s had on his face since Jonny walked in, is doing it for him.

The barista shrugs, reaches up to self-consciously adjust his cap, “Well, yeah, I mean it’s a nice neighbourhood and all, but the people who come in here at this time? Nuts,” he waves a hand, like he’s gesturing to all the crazy, “I would not recommend a single one of them give me their number.” 

Jonny forces a smile, decides that it’s better to just derail this conversation and order his drink.

“Name?” The barista asks, and Jonny freezes, eyes flashing to the logo on the cap. 

“Uh, Jonny?” He answers, wondering if the guy is just messing with him. 

Maybe he is already in on the joke, he thinks, maybe they’ve gone above and beyond getting his drink order wrong.

He vows to accuse Sharpy of it later, knows that if something is going on it would probably come down to him.

“Okay, Jonny,” the barista answers, not looking up from where he’s scribbling on the takeaway cup, “I’m Pat. Everyone calls me Kaner, though.” 

“Thanks, Kaner,” Jonny says, confused. 

He heads over to the waiting area, silently watching as Kaner continues to write on Jonny’s cup. He doesn’t get it, because “Jonny” doesn’t have that many letters, shouldn’t take that long to write, and also because there’s no one else waiting for an order. 

Couldn’t Kaner just yell out, “Venti Americano for the dude who can’t stop checking me out”? 

Jonny pulls his phone out of his pocket, already channelling the anger required to confront Sharpy over a prank. 

“Americano for Jonny,” Kaner says, putting the cup down on the bench, “have a good night.” 

Kaner looks suspicious, like he’s ready for Jonny to say something, and that immediately puts him on edge. He doesn’t reach for the drink immediately, just looks at it cautiously, wondering what to expect. 

Finally, when he catches Kaner shooting a confused and impatient look his way, he just grabs for the drink and gets the fuck out. 

It’s not until he’s already risked taking a sip, burning his mouth for the sweet glorious taste of the drink he actually ordered, that he sees Kaner did more than just write Jonny’s name on the cup.

In fact, Kaner didn’t write Jonny’s name at all. 

Where he’s expecting his name it simply reads “#19” and beneath that, a crude caricature of what Jonny guesses must be him. It’s just a face; features arranged into a severe frown that looks as if it took more effort than should be dedicated to a stick figure. Despite the frown, though, there’s a little scribble over the cheeks. 

It’s him blushing, Jonny thinks, can already feel the heat rising on his cheeks as he mirrors his stick figure image. 

A part of him knows that he needs to get home. It’s late, and even if he has the next day off, he still wants to review the game before he goes to sleep. He wants to make a checklist of things he needs to watch out for in practice. 

Still, he turns around, walks back to the shop. 

“Is everything okay?” Kaner asks. 

He has the special board in his hand, is scribbling furiously on it with a stick of chalk. 

“Why did you do this?” He shoves his cup in front of Kaner’s face, takes extra precaution not to flail and splash the hot coffee over the barista’s face. 

Kaner shrugs, “I was bored,” he admits, looking back to the board in his hands. 

Jonny doesn’t think that’s the reason at all. 

“You said everyone who came in at this time was crazy,” he accuses, wondering if he’s on the right track, wondering if he’s proving Kaner’s earlier statement true.

Kaner just shrugs again, “they are, but maybe I was wrong about not wanting to encourage it.”

Jonny lowers his voice, takes the risk, “and you’re, you know, gay?” 

Kaner rolls his eyes, conspiratorially says, “I’m, you know, hella fucking gay, apparently.”

“And single?”

“Desperately.” 

Jonny grins.


End file.
